Reluctant Herald
by brontefanatic
Summary: How the tyrant Darken Rahl's shell of a heart cracked open one night to reveal a lonely fearful man, and the reluctant messenger sent to guide him. A tale of redemption, hope and second chances. Darken Rahl & Sister Verna
1. The Tyrant and the Messenger

A/N: I wrote this fic for the Rahlmas celebration at peoplespalace/livejournal**.**

This is an AU set after the first season episode "Fever" and before any events we see in "Reckoning".

I want to thank my awesome Beta: hrhrionastar - She was amazing to help me out with this during her exam week. My heartfelt thanks for everything, but especially for helping me ponder those pesky plot-holes and for helping me get all of my Egremonts straight. Thanks also to hrhrionastar for allowing me to use her original idea of Creatormas for my story.

Disclaimer: I own nothing connected with Legend of the Seeker TV series or the Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind. I receive no profit.

I own nothing connected to "A Christmas Carol" written by Charles Dickens.

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><p><em><strong>Prologue<strong>_

Children - This is a tale told to me by my father, a tale which was told to him by his own father and before that, passed down from generation to generation going back through the centuries to that fabled time when the last Seeker of Truth walked the earth.

This is a tale of how the once fearsome tyrant, Darken Rahl, learned to keep the true spirit of Rahlmas and Creatormas - past, present and future - in his heart, and of the reluctant guide who showed him the way.

This is a tale of remorse, redemption and forgiveness.

This is a reminder to all of you that miracles are always possible.

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><p><strong><em>The Tyrant and the Messenger<em>**

The Palace of the Prophets was aglow with the joyous anticipation of Creatormas Eve, an occasion marked yearly by the Sisters of the Light inside their cloistered domain..

As her sisters bustled to and fro, hanging up holly and ivy, decorating the Creatormas tree, laughing quietly together, and being even more cheerful than usual, Sister Verna Sauventreen knelt at the foot of one of the Walls of Prophecy, trying to catch a few minutes of quiet meditation amidst the bustle around her. Even though she had already done more than her share of decorating, had finished baking her famous pastries, had prepared gifts for each of her sisters and had made her own Vows of Rededication, Verna had been increasingly troubled over the past few hours by the nagging sense of something still left undone.

For the life of her, Verna couldn't imagine what more could be required of her, but past experience and her devotion to the Creator had taught Verna that in moments such as this, it was necessary to remove herself from outer distractions and center her mind on that inner voice.

Perhaps on the eve of this holy day, Sister Verna might even be honored by a message from the Creator Herself.

True, the Creator had never revealed Herself to Verna directly, nor to any Sister of the Light in memory. Only a few women over the millennia could claim that hallowed distinction. Yet Verna had already done so much for the community of sisters, and was a natural leader. Many thought she would one day be named as Prelate.

Quelling the pride in her own accomplishments that rose in her breast, Verna bowed her head, silenced her thoughts, and listened.

_**Sister Verna.**_

It was a woman's voice, softer than a whisper, yet so powerful Verna marveled that the walls didn't shake.

_**I have a task for you.**_

Verna began to tremble, her heart pounded against her ribs. The Creator carved Her prophecies into the walls of the palace, but maybe tonight She had chosen a mortal woman to receive the next great prophecy and to reveal it to the world?

But the Creator had said a task, not a revelation.

Verna's heart sank. She was honored to be singled out, but didn't know if she could face another arduous mission. She had only just returned to the Palace of the Prophets within the past year after years of fruitlessly searching for the next War Wizard, and after barely escaping with her life from a D'Hara quad, Verna didn't want to leave this peaceful sanctuary again. Couldn't another of her sisters find the prophesied wizard who would save humankind from the monster of D'Hara – Darken Rahl?

Hadn't Verna already done more than enough?

She deserved a rest.

_**Do you doubt my wisdom in choosing you, Sister Verna? **_

The Creator's tone was firm, but with an underlying current of humor.

_**You always were stubborn, Verna. It is one of the many qualities that endear you to me.**_

Verna felt the heat rise in her face, feeling both ashamed and proud at the words, then she sternly reminded herself that pride was an affront to the Creator.

_**Do not worry, Sister. The task I send you on will be for this night only, and your body will never leave this palace, only your spirit. You will be home in body and spirit to celebrate with your sisters on the morrow. **_

That didn't sound too bad. A spiritual visitation, leaving one's body to deliver a message to a far- flung recipient, was not unheard of, although it had never been asked of Verna before. This undertaking must indeed be of the greatest importance.

_**I'm sending you to D'Hara. There is one there who is in utmost need of my guidance. **_

D'Hara! Why there? Verna had lost too many of her sisters to the D'Harans, had seen too many good and noble men and women perish at the hands of those Creator-forsaken men, all of them following the orders of the most monstrous evil of all – that demon in human form - Darken Rahl.

Verna's breath caught in her throat before she reminded herself that her body would remain quite safe. Perhaps the foretold War Wizard had been captured and imprisoned by the D'Harans, and Verna was being sent to offer him solace and advice.

If there were any unfortunate soul suffering under Rahl's infernal tyranny who needed Verna's – and the Creator's – help, then she would, with as much good grace as possible, comply with whatever was required of her.

_**You will need to put your complete trust in me, Sister Verna. You do not yet know to whom I'm sending you.**_

Again, the Creator's voice carried a hint of rueful humor.

Verna's stomach knotted. If the Creator wanted her to be a messenger to one of Lord Rahl's minions, she didn't know if she had the strength or the stomach for it.

She was beginning to regret leaving the merry gaggle of her sisters still chattering around the Creatormas tree.

Sometimes it didn't pay to be too devout.

_**The man I am sendng you to is Darken Rahl.**_

"**What!"** Verna hissed in stunned disbelief, her hands which had been open in receptive devotion clenching into fists. She sprang to her feet, terrified that she had been conversing with a fiend in the guise of the Creator. Fortunately, Verna's sisters were still gathered around the tree at the far end of the great hall, well out of earshot.

Nevertheless, Verna hastened into the nearest meditation cell. There were some things that must be spoken aloud, even if no mortal being heard her words.

"How can you even think of sending me to the creature responsible for the death of tens of thousands of innocents, the man who is the misery of D'Hara and the Midlands, who fouls the world with his very existence? What about the prophecy? Isn't anything sacred anymore?" Verna was irate, almost in tears. "How do I even know you are the Creator? I can't believe the Great Mother would ask such a thing of me."

The air grew heavy around her and a fragrance of spring rain filled the small room. A great silence filled the chamber. Shamefaced, Verna lowered her head at the gentle but firm rebuke.

_**I knew you would argue with me, Verna. This has not been an easy decision, and I understand your reluctance. But you are the best person, the only person, I would entrust with this task. You are strong-willed, determined, and compassionate. You will be under my protection. Darken Rahl, cannot harm you. Despite his magic, which is far less potent than generally believed, he is a fearful , desperate man. He is set on the path to his own destruction, but his death could have consequences beyond imagining.**_

Verna shrugged. She didn't care about Rahl's troubles and, as far as she was concerned, his death couldn't come soon enough. "His innumerable crimes are unforgivable," she declared stoutly, squaring her shoulders. "The massacre of Brennidon alone condemns him to the Keeper's fires for eternity. The Seeker of Truth barely escaped with his life."

_**I have not forgotten the children slain at Brennidon, nor any of Darken Rahl's transgressions. I forget nothing.**_The soft voice seemed to boom into the cell_. __**But It is not for you, Sister Verna, or any other mortal to decide who is beyond forgiveness**_

"But the prophecy foretold Rahl's tyranny, and the second prophecy proclaims that the Seeker will destroy Darken Rahl. Are we just to ignore all prophecy?" Verna implored, still unwilling to give up the debate.

_**There have been countless prophecies throughout history, Verna. Whether they ever come to pass is often a matter of one's point of view, and usually recorded in hindsight. Those that never materialize are soon forgotten, even those engraved upon these walls.**_

"Then why am I even here, Mother, in a palace devoted to you, and to prophecy?" Verna was pacing the room, trying to stem the tears of anger, confusion that threatened to spill down her cheeks. She felt betrayed by the One she had always revered.

Darken Rahl!

Verna still didn't want to believe it.

Wouldn't believe it.

_**You are here because this is where you are needed, Verna. We could argue about this all night, but that would defeat the whole purpose of my visit. Darken Rahl needs to hear from my emissary tonight. **_

_**However - I can't force you to do this, Verna, and would not even if I could. **_

_**I can only ask.**_

_**Are you ready to hear what needs to be done? **_

It might have been her imagination, but Verna thought she felt the soft pressure of a reassuring hand squeezing her shoulder.

"Yes, Mother," Verna muttered, her voice full of doubt, yet the Creator seemed to take no notice.

_**Then this is what I want you to do…**_

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><p>It was Rahlmas Eve and Lord Darken Rahl, ruler of D'Hara, self-proclaimed ruler of the Midlands and would-be ruler of all three territories, stalked the corridors of the People's Palace like a crimson panther, his robes trailing regally behind him, along with the typical array of Mord'Sith, guards and various hangers-on.<p>

Darken's everyday robes were troublesome enough, always swirling up dust whenever he turned around too quickly and constantly snagging on his throne, but the special garments that tradition required him to wear during the week preceding and up through Rahlmas Day were particularly irksome. Darken could swear that the palace seamstresses held a competition every year to see who could make the longest royal train for the occasion. Only today, three soldiers, five maids and one Mord'Sith had fallen victim to the treacherous coils.

The Mord'Sith, Mistress Riona, upon recovering from her undignified trip, sprawl and slide across the marble floor, had snarled at the unseen foe who had accosted her, springing up with agiel at the ready, until her eyes fell on the person, and clothing, responsible. Then, face flushed with humiliation, she had dropped to her knees before Darken, almost slipping again, as it was impossible to avoid the thirty-foot long swath of red velvet that surrounded him.

The incident would have been almost amusing if Darken wasn't so weighed down by the clothing himself, and by the burden of this holiday which he so detested.

Rahlmas had been instigated by an ancestor Darken had mentally consigned to perdition. It had been his family's way of congratulating themselves for being, well, Rahls. Which might have been all fine and good in the distant past, but what was the point of setting aside a day to reward yourself with all the material riches you already owned?

In Darken's opinion, Rahlmas was the worst day of the year. The one day when he was forced to acknowledge that his subjects did not love him; that their smiles were always forced, their eyes always averted, their gifts either coerced or given in hope of reward, and their praise always uttered through gritted teeth or in stammering fear.

Darken Rahl had forever been a man alone, but he was never more alone than on Rahlmas day.

And he hated it.

To add insult to injury, it had long since come to Darken's attention that while his subjects did not truly love or celebrate him on this holiday, they adored Rahlmas Day. Somehow, as the decades had passed, the day meant to celebrate Darken and his ancestors had also become an excuse for families to gather together in their homes and, once the Rahl devotional had been muttered, to devour copious amounts of food, play games, exchange presents, and engage in disgusting displays of affection towards one another.

Darken had had enough of the travesty.

Rahlmas was nothing but a day of empty misery for him, and if he couldn't enjoy the occasion, Darken saw no reason for anyone else to take pleasure in it.

Tomorrow afternoon, during his ceremonial speech to the masses, Darken would proclaim to all D'Hara that, after more than three thousand years, this Rahlmas would be the last.

Darken had spent most of the afternoon and early evening mulling over the momentous announcement to come while pretending not to notice the barely suppressed impatience of his men, who, he presumed, were looking forward to a night of convivial drunkenness with their comrades before spending the next day with their families.

As the hours of Rahlmas Eve wore on, even Darken's faithful Mord'Sith didn't seem immune to the desire to be out of Darken's company. Out of the corner of his eye, he had noticed Mistress Riona stifle an ostentatious yawn followed by a barely perceptible answering nod from Mistress Lisa.

He felt a sudden pang of longing for First Mistress Cara. The Seeker and his retinue were stronger than ever before, and Darken had sent his most trusted Mord'Sith to subdue his recalcitrant subjects, and to snare Richard Cypher, the Confessor and the wizard, Zeddicus, hopefully before the Seeker decided to use the Boxes of Orden which Darken's younger sister had so deviously snatched from under his nose.

Darken pondered if, wherever she was this night, Cara missed him.

He wondered if she missed her sisters even more.

Did his Mord'Sith gather together in his absence to celebrate this blasted holiday? Did they long to be away from him so that they could eat, drink and laugh together? If so, it only proved that this ridiculous business had to be put to an end.

Briefly Darken considered ordering Mistress Riona to attend him through the night as a punishment for preferring other company to his. But truth to tell, he didn't have the energy. Gesturing with curt authority, Darken dismissed the two women from his presence as well as the rest of his men. They dashed down the hall with unseemly enthusiasm, although Lisa and Riona brought up the rear with at least a modicum of dignity.

Let all of them have their final night and day of celebration. Following Darken's pronouncement on the morrow, Rahlmas would be consigned to the past.

Believing himself alone, Darken let his shoulders slump under the weight of his velvet and brocade trappings as he turned and began the long trek toward his bedchamber.

"Sir" The gruff familiar voice stopped Darken in his tracks. He should have realized that there would always be one man who didn't flee his presence at the first opportunity.

"Yes, Egremont. What is it?" Darken faced his most trusted general and advisor, who looked unusually red-faced and bleary-eyed. As Egremont approached, Darken caught the unmistakable whiff of alcohol. He had never known the man to drink on duty, but wine had been flowing freely, if discreetly, all evening, and even Darken's stalwart general must have given in to the temptation of Rahlmas eve.

Darken bit back the reprimand that sprung to his lips. Egremont was the only person Darken completely trusted, the only one who had known the ruler since Darken was a child. The general had earned a little leeway.

The abominable holiday was making everybody sloppy and inefficient.

"Lord Rahl," Egremont said carefully, inclining his head in deference. "Two days hence, Ben, my sister's youngest grandson, is being sent to fight against the latest uprising in the Midlands. I was wondering if….perhaps…" his voice trailed off uncertainly.

"What, Egremont? Out with it. I don't have all night," Darken barked with impatience. Everybody's sons and grandsons were fighting in the Midlands these days.

His cursed brother was wreaking havoc everywhere.

"Well, my Lord, I was wondering if you would grant me two days leave. It would mean so much to my wife and to my family, so that we can all be together this Rahlmas." Egremont spoke slowly and deliberately, weaving ever-so-slightly on his feet. He had never before made such a request.

Darken felt the disappointed rage burn through his veins. Even Egremont had fallen prey to the infection of Rahlmas. His staunchest companion would rather be elsewhere than at his master's side.

"No, Egremont. I can't spare you. My best wishes go with your great-nephew, but I need you with me." For some unfathomable reason Darken found it hard to meet the older mans' eyes. "You will have tomorrow to spend with your family," he relented, thinking himself very generous. "Then I expect you back at Court at the next break of dawn."

Egremont just stared at Darken for a moment, as if trying to take in what he had heard, and then seemed to remember his duty. "Yes, my Lord", he acknowledged, with a husky edge to his voice that Darken had never heard before. "Do I have your permission to leave now?"

"Yes, yes." Darken waved the general away, hating the way Egremont was making him doubt himself. "Enjoy your day off."

Giving another obsequious tilt of the head, the general turned away and tottered unsteadily down the hall. Darken watched him with an uncomfortable knot in his throat.

If only Egremont hadn't mentioned his family.

He, of all people, should have known better.

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><p>By the time he reached the royal bedchamber, Darken was so burdened with velvet, brocade, tension and irritation that he knew there would be no sleep for him this night. Throwing off the stifling robes with a groan of relief, he sat down at his writing desk with the intent of writing his proclamation for the following day.<p>

But before he had managed to jot down more than few words Darken was overcome with a weariness that seemed to bleach into his bones, his heart and his soul. He needed to rest, if only for a few moments.

Walking over to his empty bed with leaden feet, Darken lay down without even bothering to pull a pillow under his head. Sleep claimed him as soon as he closed his eyes. Sweet, deep dreamless sleep such as Darken had not known since earliest childhood.

He was oblivious to the world until an icy blast of winter air jolted him awake.

The shutters, which Darken always kept firmly closed, had blown open, and the fire that had been roaring in the hearth when he had taken to his bed was now barely flickering.

"I thought you'd never wake up, Rahl. You sleep like the dead." A woman's voice spoke in the dark, but his fogged brain couldn't make out its source.

"Cara?" Darken asked hopefully. Maybe she had returned to him in triumph. His Cara never feared to disturb him, especially if she brought good news. "When did you get back?"

The air blew colder against Darken's skin as a slender figure clothed in red moved into his line of vision, her face cast in sharp relief by the fire, which had roared into life again at a wave of her hand.

"I hope you don't mind, but it's cold outside, and I've traveled a long distance," the crimson woman declared as, with another gesture, the shutters slammed shut.

With reflexes honed by years of training and suspicion, Darken sprang from the bed and slashed the woman's throat.

Or thought he had.

But instead of muscle and bone, his blade sliced through an apparition that not only shed no blood, but had the audacity to laugh at him. He could see her, could hear her, but she wasn't – there.

"Who are you? What are you?" Darken demanded, backing away slowly, calling to mind every incantation he could think of to ward off malignant spirits. He might not be able to kill this creature in the flesh, but he could still destroy her with magic.

She held out her hand, forestalling him before the first syllable left his lips. "Your spells are a waste of your breath and my time, Darken Rahl. Your magic has no power against me, even within the walls of your impregnable palace."

Darken found that he had completely forgotten the words to every spell he had ever learned. Yet now that his eyes and senses were adjusting, he sensed no threat from the woman. On closer inspection, she really looked quite ordinary – middling in stature and age, long dark brown hair, with three distinctive marks on her forehead.

"You're a Sister of the Light." Darken announced with something like wonder, uneasy at the thought that a member of a Sisterhood so opposed to his rule could penetrate his barriers and deflect his magic with so little effort, appearing to him, speaking to him, apparently without even leaving the comfort of her own sanctuary.

It was a skill Darken would give his soul to gain, if only he had not already bargained it away.

He craved the secret to this powerful sorcery.

"You're my sworn enemy, Sister, an advocate of every prophecy made against me, and, since you've successfully deprived me of my magic, it would seem you have me at your mercy. Why don't you just kill me?" Darken's practiced smile belied the reckless words. This woman, for whatever reason, presented no immediate danger. He approached her again, unarmed now, and bared his throat to her, as if daring her to strike him down.

For the first time his visitor seemed to lose a bit of her self-assurance. Gazing at him with a look of bewildered fury, she exclaimed, "That's an excellent question? I **should **kill you. You deserve death. But She has not given me the power to harm you, and I don't understand why. I've had to come all this way but can't put an end to you. It would save so many lives if I could." The woman sounded almost petulant, and very human.

Darken was intrigued - A powerful sorceress who wanted him dead, yet who was powerless to complete the act. He needed to glean as much information from her as possible. "What are you called?" Darken asked, easing himself down by the fire, gesturing for her to join him, not at all discomfited by giving her the advantage of height when she ignored his invitation. "I'd offer you wine, if only you could drink." Gaining confidence, he flashed another smile at her.

The impotent rage in her eyes was rather appealing. Darken didn't mind if his enemies hated him, although he preferred it if they feared him, too.

The Sister of the Light glared down at him, and Darken fought a momentary urge to duck. He wondered if a kick from a spirit would leave bruises.

"I knew I should never have agreed to this," she muttered through clenched teeth." I was the wrong person to send. She should have known that."

Who was this 'She' the woman kept nattering on about?

"I asked for your name. Surely a small thing to ask – under the circumstances." Darken's voice was soft, deliberately seductive, knowing he was only goading her further. This past week had been such an ordeal , he deserved some entertainment.

Her lips started to curl back in a snarl, but then her features relaxed. The creature seemed to be concentrating on something that had nothing to do with Darken, to be listening to a voice he couldn't hear. He found it extremely irritating. Darken always expected to be the center of attention, particularly in his own bedchamber.

"Verna," the woman finally whispered, the anger now gone from her voice. "My name is Sister Verna, and I have no desire to remain in this tainted place any longer than necessary." She gazed down at Darken once again, this time with resignation. "But here I am, and here you are, so we might as well get on with it so that I can return to my home, and you to – whatever it is that you do."

"Get on with what?" Sensing that his brief control over their encounter was faltering, Darken rose to his feet. He wasn't about to cede Sister Verna one inch of advantage now – this intruder who could enter his palace at will.

"My task," Verna replied with a grimace of distaste, reaching out to take his hand before he had time to react. "Regrettably it requires a certain amount of physical contact."

Darken jerked away from the surprising warmth of her flesh. This Verna was indeed formidable, able to manifest in either corporeal form or apparition as she chose. But he was not about to let her lay a finger on him. The sister had already proven her ability to negate his magic, who knew what spell she could cast on him despite her protestations that she could do him no harm.

The witch's touch might twist his will to do her bidding. Darken was immune to confession, but this was something else entirely.

"You still haven't told me who sent you," he snapped, hoping that his patented Rahl stare was able to disguise his growing alarm.

Verna rolled her eyes, sighing in exasperation. "I've come here only at the bequest of the Creator. Only She could convince me to endure your presence, and it wasn't easy – even for Her." Verna heaved another great sigh, shrugging her shoulders. "I am sworn to do Her will, no matter how revolting the task might be. She must have her reasons, as incomprehensible as they may seem."

Once more Verna reached for Darken's hand, but he recoiled from her touch. At the mention of the Creator's name, terror had replaced apprehension in his heart. He had nothing to do with the Creator, nor She with him.

He had renounced the Creator years ago.

Darken was for the Keeper.

"Rahl, I'm beginning to think I gave you too much credit. You're not a cunning, manipulative tyrant after all, but an arrogant, short-sighted fool. Give me your hand. " Verna repeated in a harsh tone as she tapped the toe of her boot impatiently against the floor. "I want to get this over with as much as you do."

"Why? I see no benefit to myself, and you have yet to give me a good reason why I should trust you." Darken was trying to maintain the illusion of calm, but was forced to admit that he had lost control over this situation as soon as this infernal woman had entered his room. "This Creator may claim you mean me no harm, but injury can take many forms."

Verna threw up her hands in disgust. "Very well! I can't force you to accept the Creator's help if you are determined to reject it. She has given Her word that you will be safe. I was instructed to make the offer. I have done so. If you refuse, so be it. I'm more than ready to leave." Verna turned from the warmth of the fire and crossed the distance to the window, raising her palm to open the shutters.

"Wait! Don't go – not yet." Darken almost shouted, astonished at himself. It suddenly seemed of paramount importance that she stay with him.

If she left, he would be left alone – as always.

Sister Verna carried with her some vital knowledge that he both dreaded, and for which he yearned.

"Well – make up your mind. I don't have all night." Verna said, a little less harshly than before. "It's Creatormas Eve, and I wish to celebrate the Mother's blessed day with my sisters.

Darken stared at her a moment and gave a strangled laugh. "It's Rahlmas Eve here in D'Hara, Sister Verna. I'm shocked you wouldn't prefer to spend the happy day with us."

One of his distant ancestors must have deliberately chosen the Creator's ancient day of worship in order to celebrate the mighty name of Rahl. While it made a certain degree of strategic sense it did seem a little petty of them. He wondered how many of his subjects still covertly blessed the Creator during Rahlmas. Yet Darken had heard that time passed more slowly in the Palace of the Prophets. Perhaps it was only coincidence that the events coincided this year.

When Verna refused to rise to the bait, Darken waved her back over to join him before the fire. "Very well, Verna, Sister of the Light, messenger from the Creator, what does the Blessed One demand of me?"

If Verna was insulted at the casual use of the Mother's name she gave no sign. "Only that you take my hand and accompany me on a journey." This time Darken did not pull away when she reached over and caught his fingers in her own firm grip.

"Where are we going?" he asked, despising the plaintive note in his voice, feeling almost like a child.

"Nowhere. Everywhere. Even I don't know where the Creator will guide us, Darken Rahl, or what we will see when we arrive." For the first time that night a glint of humor sparkled in Verna's eyes.

Before he could form an appropriately sardonic retort, the walls of the chamber dissolved around them.


	2. The Past

_**The Past**_

Darken found himself standing by a cradle, looking into clear blue eyes far more innocent than his own. The infant boy was screaming in distress, his dark hair damp with fever.

Then an all too familiar form materialized through the mist, a man whose arrogantly handsome face was set in harsh lines as he stared dispassionately at the squalling child.

A nursemaid then appeared at Darken's side, oblivious to his presence. "My Lord, this illness has been inflicted by dark magic. Shouldn't you send for the wizard? Surely he can heal the child," she implored.

"Please, Panis! Please help our child." Another woman was speaking, her form hidden in shadow, her voice hoarse with tears. "If Zeddicus can heal Darken, why won't you send for him?"

"No," Panis Rahl replied flatly, turning away from his son. "Let him die."

* * *

><p>Darken's breath caught in his throat. "I was never told of this. The constant nightmares – I can't remember a time when I wasn't haunted by them."<p>

He felt Verna's eyes boring into him but he said nothing more. Darken would never reveal to a living soul that he had seen the green fires of the Underworld long before he had made his bargain with the Keeper.

The scene before them had shifted again.

Now Darken and Verna stood in a sunlit room filled with fragrance of jasmine. It was a bedchamber in the People's Palace, but not his own. A small boy, perhaps three years of age, sat on the floor drawing on a ragged piece of parchment when a young woman adorned in a dark red dress danced into the room and swept him up in her arms.

"Happy Rahlmas, my darling? Did you like all your toys?" She nuzzled the boy's neck causing him to giggle. The woman's long brown hair mingled with his as she whispered into the child's ear. He laughed again, as did she, a clear sweet sound.

"Mother" Darken murmured, pierced to the core at the lilt of her voice. His mother's features had faded in his memory, but never her laugh, or the scent of her hair, or the feel of her arms around him. No portraits of Queen Margaret Rahl hung in the palace, and Darken sometimes wondered if he had conjured up her very existence out of his own desperate longing.

But there she was – so close, so real.

Darken tried to pull away from his companion.

"No, Rahl." Verna warned. "She is beyond your reach and cannot see you. We are only observers."

"Put me down, Mama. I want to give you my present," the child demanded. When the young queen complied, still laughing, the little boy fetched the scrawled drawing he had been laboring over earlier and presented it to her. "Happy Rahlmas, Mama. Do you like it? I made it myself. It's a picture of our family – even Father."

Taking the dog-eared parchment in her slender fingers, Margaret exclaimed over its beauty. "It's wonderful, Darken, just what I wanted. How did you ever know?" She hugged him tight against her. "I have something else for you, sweetheart, but don't tell your father. You know how he is." The queen placed a piece of toffee into the child's hand which he quickly popped in his mouth.

"I've warned you against coddling that boy, Margaret." Panis Rahl strode into the chamber and pulled Darken roughly out of his mother's arms, plopping him on the floor. Snatching the drawing out of his wife's hands, the man scowled. "What are these scribbles supposed to be? Drawing is a woman's frippery, Darken." With that, Panis ripped the parchment into shreds over the protesting cries of his wife and child.

"Stop crying, both of you," he ordered. "We have guests, and I won't tolerate being embarrassed by my wife and child. After Rahlmas, I'm sending Darken away for a few months. He will be well cared for at the Mord'Sith temple, and you, Margaret, will have to learn that your first priority is your husband, not your son. My heir must learn to be strong, and he can't do that with a scatter-brained woman catering to his every whim."

As Margaret looked up at her husband, dark eyes wide with mute appeal, her brown hair fell back from her face.

Darken hissed when he saw the healing bruises around her eyes, on her cheek and neck. "The bastard! I wish I could kill him again!" His free hand clenched into a fist as he started forward, this time only to have the figures of his father, mother and Darken's younger self dissolve around him as if they had never existed.

* * *

><p>The boy sat on the floor, his back against the rough stone of the small room, his expression set in a sullen scowl . He could not have been more than nine years of age, Verna surmised, yet she could already recognize in him the features of the man standing next to her.<p>

The only objects surrounding the boy in the tiny chamber were a bare cot, a small table with a pile of books and scrolls, a pitcher of water and a wooden bench.

As Verna watched, the hard-faced blond man who had earlier taken the younger Darken out of his mother's arms pushed open the door and placed a few sharpened quills along with a bowl of ink down on the table. From Darken's earlier comment, Verna knew this could only be Panis Rahl, the ruler who had started the endless wars, almost equaling his son in tyranny.

"There! Once you correct your mistakes, I might let you join us for Rahlmas dinner, but that is all. Your presents are right there on that table." The man growled, obviously impatient to be out of his son's presence. "It is becoming very apparent that you will never be fit to rule D'Hara. You're as weak as your mother, notwithstanding the prophecy. I would give anything to have my other boy with me – the son I can take pride in."

Verna wondered to whom Panis Rahl was referring. As far as she was aware, the previous tyrant had fathered only one child.

Young Darken muttered something under his breath, and Panis yanked him up by the arm. "What did you just say to me, boy?"

"I said that I'm the only son you have whether you like it or not, and I'm the rightful heir," young Darken spat , his eyes tearing up despite his verbal defiance.

"Perhaps not this year or next, but one day there will be another son – stronger, braver, better than you will ever be. I've already told you of the prophecy." Panis gazed at his child with distaste. "Never think that I don't know what you are. I see it in your eyes every time I'm forced to look at you. I see the evil in you."

Dear Spirits! Was the man taunting his own child about the prophecy that had attended Darken's birth? Verna was trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before her eyes, keenly aware of the barely suppressed rage of the man who watched with her.

What father would do such a thing? Any parent knowing of such a portent would surely have tried to avert it with loving guidance, not belittlement and cruelty. What better method could there be of insuring a child's hatred?

"If hating you means I'm evil, then I'm glad of it," the boy countered hotly, not bothering to wipe away the tears streaking down his face. "You killed Mother. I haven't forgotten, and I'll never forgive you."

His father's answering slap sent Darken sprawling against the wall. "Happy Rahlmas, Darken!" Then Panis turned on his heel and left the room, locking the door behind him as the room went dark.

* * *

><p>"Sister Verna, you've had the pleasure of observing one of the many joyful Rahlmas Day celebrations of my youth," Darken tried to quip, but his attempt at flippancy was belied by the catch in his voice. "Can you tell me why I'm being subjected to this? I lived through these events, and I don't care to be reminded of them."<p>

Verna could only shake her head. "I am only the conduit for these visions, Rahl, nothing more." Then her curiosity got the better of her. "What did your father mean – another, better son?"

Darken looked genuinely surprised. "Haven't you guessed by now, Sister Verna? I thought the Creator knew everything."

"As She does," Verna answered. "But that doesn't mean She has revealed them to me. I am –"

Darken help up his free hand in an imperious gesture, cutting her off. "Wait. Something else is happening."

* * *

><p>Young Darken was slouched over the wooden table in the same dismal room, staring at nothing. Only hours seemed to have passed since his encounter with his father. The quills left to him by Panis Rahl lay scattered and broken on the flagstone floor. Pages out of the lesson books had been torn out, balled up and thrown against the walls. The pitcher had been shattered, its contents pooling around young Darken's feet.<p>

There was a sound of a key turning in the lock, and the heavy door swung inward to reveal another man, much the same age as Panis Rahl, but clad in the uniform of the Dragon Corps. In his arms the soldier cradled a cloth-covered plate

"My Lord, I managed to slip up here before I have to be at your father's side. I don't have much time, but I thought that after so many hours spent over your studies that you might be hungry." He respectfully set down the plate on the table. Raising his hand it appeared as if he were about to give the boy a comforting pat on the shoulder, but stopped himself. "My wife makes a wonderful dumpling soup, and the roast duck is still warm. She baked fresh bread, too. I know it's not the royal fare you are accustomed to, but it's hearty and filling." As if ashamed of saying too much, the soldier stepped away and started toward the door.

"Thank you, Captain Egremont, but I'm not hungry," young Darken said, gazing up at the older man's retreating back. "My father and I had another argument."

"Yes, I know," the captain acknowledged quietly. "You shouldn't take everything your father says to heart, my lord. He has a kingdom to rule and many responsibilities. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it." The man seemed to be trying to convince himself of the truth of his words.

"He means every word, Egremont," young Darken cried out. "For as long as I can remember Father has called me names – weak, stupid, coward, evil." The boy's tears had dried, leaving his face covered by streaks of grime where he had wiped his inky hands over his cheeks. "You've known me since I was born. Do you agree with Father ?" he asked, gazing anxiously at the captain. "And don't just tell me what you think I want to hear."

Egremont, foregoing protocol for the moment, came back and knelt next to the ink-stained table, looking Darken in the eyes. "I think, young Lord Rahl, that if you can control your anger and learn from your father's mistakes, you have the makings of a fine ruler. I also know that if you were **my** son, I would never - " The captain, whose voice had become progressively hoarse during this recitation, was suddenly overcome of a fit of coughing that prevented him from voicing any more of his thoughts.

Once he had regained his breath, Egremont got to his feet and looked around at the wreckage Darken had made of the chamber. "I think it would be wise, my Lord, to clean up this room before your father returns. I know you can't repair what's already broken, but you can at least pick up the pieces."

"I have to go now, Darken, your father is waiting." It was the first time the captain had used the boy's given name, a serious breach of royal protocol, but unremarked upon. "I know you're not hungry, but I'll leave this plate here just in case you change your mind." With obvious reluctance, Egremont turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

"There goes the father I should have had." Darken whispered, his voice so low that Verna could hardly make out the words. "But if that had been the case," he added, giving her a twisted smile," I wouldn't be a Rahl, there would be no prophecy, no Seeker of Truth, the Boxes of Orden would be scattered and where would all of us be today?"

"It would have been better if you had never been born," Verna shot back, feeling a stab of remorse as soon as the words left her lips. She had been affected more than she would like to admit by the visions she had witnessed thus far.

While Darken's bleak childhood could never be an excuse for the atrocities he had committed, it did much to explain the man he had become.

"Ah – now you sound just like my father." Darken appeared to have regained his infamous Rahl composure, his blue eyes now cold and distant. "And look what happened to him."

As if on cue, the world around them went dark once more as the events of the past swirled around them ever faster.

* * *

><p>"It's done," Panis Rahl told his fourteen-year old son as they stood in the throne room – empty now, so late at night on Rahlmas Eve. "You were born under a prophecy of evil and now I've balanced the scales. The second prophecy has been fulfilled. Your brother, my true son, will be born within the week, and he will mete out the justice and vengeance you deserve for your crimes."<p>

"What crimes? I've done nothing that you haven't done yourself, Father." Darken's features were an expressionless mask as he faced the man who had sired him, and who now announced his death.

"But you will, Darken, you will." Panis's face was flushed with exultation and strong drink. "And I will have a son more powerful than you can ever imagine. He will be named the Seeker of Truth, he will destroy you, and he will be the greatest War Wizard in three thousand years. What father could ask more?

"Where will he be born, this magnificent brother of mine?" Darken filled his father's goblet to the brim with more wine, smiling as Panis threw back his head and downed the contents in one swallow. "Or don't you know where the mother has gone? How can you be sure some other man hasn't beaten you to the mark? Maybe this prodigy isn't your son at all."

"No other man has had her! I made sure of that. She thinks I'm going to marry her. She's…she's… from a purfull – "Panis struggled to form coherent words while holding out the goblet which Darken obligingly filled again. "Her father was wunz my fren…Zee…Zeddicuz Zoorlander – powfur wizardz in tha familee." Panis waved the cup around, spattering the floors and walls with its contents.

"But where has she gone, Lord Rahl, this mother of your son?" Darken leaned over and whispered in his father's ear. "Where is she hiding? Maybe she wants to keep you away from the boy. Perhaps she's laughing at you behind your back – you disgusting drunken fool."

By now, Panis was so befuddled with drink that his son's insult barely registered. "I know whur she iz…making shur she and boy are sav – "

"But **where**? If something happens to you, how will anyone get word to her?" Darken queried, now assuming the guise of a concerned older brother.

"Bre….Brenn….Brennidon." Panis finally managed to stammer. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he gaped down in confusion, watching as his life's blood mingled with the spilled wine on the marble floor.

"Thank you, Father," Darken purred, withdrawing his blade with one smooth motion as Panis Rahl's lifeless body slumped against the foot of his throne. "Those are the sweetest words you've ever spoken to me."

* * *

><p>Another infant wailed in the dark. But this time there was no cradle, no royal trappings, no nurse, only a young terrified mother clinging to her newborn child as screams filled the air.<p>

The screams of mothers, of fathers, of children.

The screams that never stopped.

* * *

><p>"Enough! I've seen enough!" Darken tore his fingers out of Sister Verna's grip and stumbled back to the foot of his bed, where he sagged against the bedpost. "The Prophecy was right, my father was right, you were right. I'm everything you thought and worse. But I had to protect myself, don't you understand? That was all I could think about. I had to prove I could be strong, that I was ruthless, that I was everything my father wanted me to be."<p>

Why was he begging this woman for understanding? Darken was the Lord Rahl. He groveled before no one.

Enraged, guilt-stricken and humiliated, wanting to throttle the person who had witnessed and forced him to relive his past sorrows and cruelty, Darken lunged at Verna - and stumbled right through her.

Yet she still remained standing where they had first joined hands, incorporeal once more.

Darken pulled himself off the floor, grabbing onto the edge of the mantle for leverage. He couldn't bring himself to meet Verna's stare. He knew what he would find there.

Loathing.

Contempt.

Accusation.

"There are no excuses for the crimes you have committed, Darken Rahl." Verna declared, her voice so deep with authority that she might have been the Creator Herself.

"I don't regret what I did to my father, and I never will," Darken asserted, finally bringing himself to face her judgmental gaze. "But Brennidon….that was different. If I were faced with the choice again, I would have taken a different path. It…haunts me."

He had never made that admission to anyone in his life.

"And what about the plagues, the quads, the experiments at the Keep of Edron, the murder of the Confessors? Do those also haunt your dreams?" Vera asked, her eyes blazing.

The weariness Darken had felt earlier in the evening was as nothing compared to the bone-crushing fatigue that swept over him now. "We are at war, Sister Verna. I have felt compelled to take certain steps to defend myself and D'Hara. I did not initiate the invasion of the Midlands, but, yes, I have continued it.

"The Seeker – my brother, who, incidentally, now has all three Boxes of Orden – is sworn to kill me. That prophecy has been hanging over my head for decades, and you are fully aware of the prophecy of my monstrosity that preceded my birth. Do you have any idea what it felt like to grow up under such a shadow? Am I on trial here tonight before the Creator? Is that what this is all about? If such is the case, why not just condemn me now and have done with it? I cannot change what I have done."

Verna didn't reply, once more seeming to reach inside herself, listening to that voice he couldn't hear.

The voice Darken had **never **been able to hear.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Creator, Mother of us all, help me to understand<em>, Verna pleaded_. You told me what to do, but not what I would see. Everything has become so complicated. Why didn't you warn me?_

The Seeker and Darken Rahl were brothers, their paths set in conflict before either had been born. It seemed grotesquely unjust, and had sent the world around the two men into chaos and bloodshed. As much as Verna might admire Richard both as the Seeker, and as the wizard he might one day become, she wasn't enamored by the fact that he now possessed the Boxes of Orden.

_What am I supposed to do next? What am I supposed to say?_

The silence seemed to stretch on forever as Verna waited for an answer that didn't come. She recalled the deceptively simple words the Creator had spoken to her earlier.

_**Past. **_

_**Present. **_

_**Future.**_

_**You will know what to say when the time comes.**_

"No," Verna finally answered Darken's question, "I have no authority to put you on trial. That is not what She wants, or why I'm here. She wants you to see, to listen, to understand." She then stood silent, gazing into the flames. "And I am to do the same."

She reached out to her enemy. "Take my hand again. We have left the past behind where it belongs, now we must see the present."

Wordlessly, driven by an impulse he didn't comprehend, Darken obeyed.


	3. Present and Future

_**Present and Future**_

Darken and Verna stood in the middle of a sun drenched clearing, the air so crisp and cold that it stung his throat. A small cottage nestled along the edge of the forest, smoke wafting from the chimney set atop a lopsided lean-to.

"No, Chase, you tell the story, I always forget the important parts."

"Very well, Emma, but don't blame me if I get carried away. You know how much I love the sound of my own voice."

Amidst the peals of answering laughter coming from within the dwelling, Darken heard a voice that was painfully familiar, although he had shared so little time with her, and that time so filled with deceit and lies.

His sister Jennsen was in that cottage, and if she were there, so undoubtedly were the others – Kahlan, Richard, Zeddicus – all breaking bread with this Chase person. The name of the man's wife, Emma, caused a queasy knot to form in Darken's gut. She had been used by Giller in Darken's quest to gain the power of confession. Chase Brandstone had been the name of one of the rebels who had descended on the Keep of Edron after Darken's escape.

Even in the present, the past dogged at Darken's heels.

Then, without taking a step, Darken and Verna were inside, lookers-on at a family feast.

Darken had forgotten the last time he had enjoyed a meal. He was a man of many appetites, but food was not one of them. He ate out of necessity, nothing more, rarely tasting the delicacies that were placed in front of him. Yet now his mouth watered at the aroma of stew and freshly baked bread coming from Emma's kitchen.

He was suddenly ravenous, yet unable to touch what appeared to be only inches away from him.

Although Darken was a master of illusion, he still found it amazing that he could be standing among his enemies without being seen. But, of course, he wasn't really with them at all.

Richard was still chuckling at something Chase had just said, his earnest young face cheerful and open. Try as he might, Darken could never see their father in Richard. Was Panis looking up at them right now while he writhed in agony in the Underworld? If so, what might he be thinking?

Probably, Darken thought with a wry amusement that stung nevertheless, their father would be trying to warn Richard, screaming at him to kill the unseen monster standing by the table.

Next to Richard, Kahlan sat conferring with Jennsen over some article of clothing one of Brandstone's daughter was wearing, while Zedd was stalking Emma in the kitchen, complimenting her on such a delicious meal, and, by the way, did she happen to have another loaf of that wonderful bread?

Darken found his gaze riveted to a satchel flung carelessly under the table. He **knew** what was in the leather pouch, and his fingers itched to regain what was rightfully his.

Verna must have seen the expression on his face, because she squeezed his hand – hard. "Don't even think about it." She hissed between clenched teeth. "They are beyond your reach."

Darken knew she was right, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

The Boxes of Orden might as well have been on the far side of the moon as far as he was concerned. But it was torture to see where the boxes lay so neglected, and not be able to take them.

But It was far greater torture to feel the palpable companionship and love between the revelers, knowing that he shared no part of it, and never would. There they were – brother, sister and the man who had once been his father's closest friend – and the only role Darken played in their lives was that of a 'thing' that must be destroyed.

Richard must know by now that Darken was his brother, unless Jennsen had dismissed Darken's claim as just another falsehood.

Darken didn't know what would be worse – that Richard might know of their relationship, yet not care, or that Jennsen felt so little connection to her oldest brother that she hadn't bothered to speak of it.

He recalled that brief window of opportunity he had been given with his sister. He could have chosen to tell Jennsen the truth about everything. With her support, Darken might have been able to reach out to his brother, to call a truce.

Even after Jennsen had left, Egremont had urged him to try and make peace, but Darken had rejected the advice.

It was too late, Darken had replied, too terrified of Richard armed with the Power of Orden to contemplate any other path but complete annihilation of all those who threatened him.

But had it been too late? Was there still a chance?

He shook off the fragile hope. Even if Darken could bring himself to swallow his pride, Richard would consider any request for negotiation to be the last treacherous ploy of a desperate man. The Seeker would never believe in Darken's sincerity.

At that moment Jennsen, her hair burnished by the firelight, turned her head and look so intently at Darken that for a moment he imagined that she was going to welcome him to the table. But she wasn't looking at him, only at Richard, who sat across the room from her.

Where Darken stood there was only emptiness.

He couldn't remember anything else.

It should have stopped hurting by now – that pain of not being loved. Darken had held it at bay for years, but now in the face of his siblings' happiness with each other, it returned with a force that doubled him over.

"What's wrong?" Verna asked, her eyes dark with worry.

"Just a cramp. The smell of the food made me realize how hungry I was," Darken answered, forcing himself to stand up straight.

How could he explain this sensation of nothingness to one who served the Creator?

It was too much - the laughter, the companionship, the love. It was time to leave.

"Let's go," Darken snapped at Verna. "I've seen enough."

She glared back at him. "We aren't in control, unless you choose to stop everything right now. All you have to do is let go of my hand and we'll be back in your bedchamber. This time, you won't be able to change your mind. Is that what you want?"

**Yes!**

That was exactly what Darken wanted, or thought he did, but didn't relax his grip, only hoping that the ordeal would end soon.

* * *

><p>In the blink of an eye he found himself surrounded by Mord'Sith.<p>

He and Verna sat in the audience room in the Mord'Sith Temple at Jandrilyn. A great circular table had been set up in the room that was always reserved for Darken's pleasure whenever he chose to visit.

There were at least forty Sisters of the Agiel of all ranks and ages gathered together here this night.

The Rahlmas tree gracing the center of the chamber, adorned with tinsel, silver bells, and agiels; the roast beef, turkey and stuffing, the sweet potato pie gracing the table, the gaily wrapped presents being exchanged right and left, were all stark evidence that the noxious sentimentality of Rahlmas had infected Darken's most impervious warriors.

It appeared as if Darken's worst suspicions had been correct.

He should have been furious, and was certain he would have been if not so distracted by the events of the evening.

Instead, Darken found himself searching the room for the one Mord'Sith who would surely prove immune to the Rahlmas disease.

Just when Darken had come to the conclusion that Cara was off in the wilds still fruitlessly searching for Richard, his eyes lit upon her slender form.

Cara and Mistress Dahlia sat on the far side of the room, apart from their sisters, murmuring and laughing softly together, oblivious to all else around them.

Darken watched as Cara furtively pressed a small package into Dahlia's hand and then drew her into a tight embrace.

She looked so lovely, so young, so happy.

Darken had always known of Cara's special relationship with Dahlia. The stern devotion that bound the Sisters of the Agiel together, despite the constant rivalries and jostling for position, was powerful in every way. He had always casually assumed that he came first with Cara, as he did with all the Mord'Sith.

In her case, Darken had believed that that the preference was not due solely to Rahl blood magic, but because Cara, alone among his Mord'Sith, loved him out of her own free will.

Tonight Darken couldn't deny the truth. Cara might indeed care for him, but she **loved** Dahlia. That reality was harder to acknowledge than the enmity of his blood-family.

The one bond that he and Cara did share was one so secret that it had never been mentioned between them in six years.

He doubted now that they would ever speak of it.

Once again anxious to depart from a scene he found hard to endure, but now understanding that he was not in control, Darken turned his attention to Verna, who sat next to him, white faced and appalled.

"These women, they celebrate with such abandon, with such indifference to the suffering they've wreaked on the innocent," she said, her eyes cold. "They revel in the pain they inflict."

Darken shrugged. "They are a sisterhood much like yours, Sister Verna. Why shouldn't they enjoy themselves on this night." He was deliberately provoking her, but it helped pass the time until the Creator saw fit to allow them to leave.

"There is no comparison between my sisterhood and these abominations," Verna sputtered angrily. "We serve the Creator, and devote ourselves to the good of others, not ourselves."

"Just as the Mord'Sith are devoted to the House of Rahl. They risk their lives for me every day without thought for themselves." He owed so much to these stoic women. Darken had rarely given the fact much reflection before tonight.

"They must be sadists to choose such a life," Verna retorted. "I've heard the stories of their brutality. I've tended many of their victims."

Darken studied her fixed expression. How could this woman seem so wise while being so ignorant of certain realities?

"Tell me, Sister," he inquired mildly," how did you come to join your sisterhood? Were you dragged away from your parents when you were nine years of age against your will? Were you broken through the use of fear and pain? Were you forced to watch your parents die?"

"Of course not!" Verna cried, indignant. "I was chosen at an early age because of my calling, I received training, I had to prove myself, but it was my choice. I had a vocation." She regarded the women gathered around the table. "I always thought it was the same with them."

Darken wanted to let the matter rest, but something compelled him to continue. Verna already thought him a monster. "I've broken many of these women myself, Sister. I've seen the pain they must endure to gain acceptance into the Sisterhood. I've inflicted much of it, as is my right." Once that would have been a boast, a source of pride, now Darken only felt the familiar weariness descend upon him again.

"If you must hate anyone, it should be me rather than the Mord'Sith" Darken continued, staring down at the floor, unwilling to meet Verna's condemning gaze, although he could feel it scorching the back of his neck. "But whatever you do, don't insult these women with your pity. They are proud of who they are, regardless of the horror they might inspire in you."

"So they're nothing more than your puppets. You pull the strings, and they obey without thought," Verna said, her voice hoarse with disgust.

"They obey me, yes, just as any soldier obeys his or her commander, but they are hardly puppets." Darken said, recalling Denna's betrayal, and Cara's canny ability to question his decisions while convincing him of the superiority of hers without ruffling Darken's stiff-necked pride.

"Look at them, Sister Verna, they are part of a sisterhood, just as you are. Perhaps, in a way, they are closer to each other than they will ever be to me." As much as Darken hated to admit it, he knew this to be a fact. He finally raised his eyes and looked over at his companion. "Didn't you tell me that I was not the only one instructed by the Creator to see and understand?"

Verna flushed, clearly affronted at having her words thrown back in her face, and was just beginning to snap a retort when the temple melted into darkness around them.

* * *

><p>A roaring fire warmed the large dining room where the men, women and children were milling about, laughing, picking up scattered toys, snacking on nuts and berries as they waited for the roast goose to be brought to the table.<p>

The atmosphere was one of excitement and eager anticipation.

It was a substantial house, built to shelter generations loyal to their king, but above everything else, devoted to each other. A house passed down from parent to child, standing the test of time. Many Lord Rahls had come and gone during the life of this house, but the family had always stood as one – sturdy, strong, loving and fiercely protective of one another.

"Where are we?" Verna asked, looking around at the holiday trappings – the towering Rahlmas tree, the glowing candles, the side table groaning under the platters of food and drink.

"We are in the house I would have given anything to call home," Darken answered quietly. He had never been inside the dwelling before this night, but he had recognized it instantly, instinctively.

Just then, General Egremont, husband, father and grandfather, strode into the room and marched to the head of the table, drawing everyone's attention as he banged on the surface with the butt of a cutting knife. "It's time!" he announced, his normally dour expression transformed by a happy smile as he surveyed all of the Egremonts by blood and marriage surrounding him. The general seemed far steadier on his feet than Darken recalled from earlier in the evening. Perhaps a few dousings of cold water had sobered him up, or maybe all he had needed was the security of being his own master, under his own roof.

As the crowd of Egremonts quieted their chatter and gathered around the table, mothers shushing fretful children, fathers, sons, brothers and husbands putting their arms around their loved ones, Mrs. Egremont, a woman oft mentioned but never before glimpsed by Darken, entered the room carrying a platter laden with one of the largest roast fowls he had ever seen, even in the People's Palace. There was a gasp of admiration from the throng as she set her offering down in front of her husband, accepting his kiss as her rightful due for preparing such a feast.

In preparation of cutting the goose, Egremont cleared his throat portentously, took up his glass of wine, and began to speak. "It's not often we are all together, living so far apart, with so many of you serving Lord Rahl throughout D'Hara and the Midlands, but I am thankful we can enjoy this night and tomorrow as a family. Even when we are apart in body, we are always together in our hearts."

At these words, those present with the exception of the children raised their own goblets in expectation.

"To the family," General Egremont proclaimed, taking a sip of wine under the watchful eye of his wife.

"To the family," echoed the throng of Egremonts, enthusiastically following suit.

Darken felt a knot forming in his throat. He had spent so many years imagining what it might be like to belong to this house, to be part of this family.

"And to Lord Rahl, who we honor on this holiday," the general proffered his glass again, a signal that the ceremony was not complete.

"To Lord Rahl," the response was considerably more subdued than before, and Darken could hear every word muttered under her breath by the matronly woman at the general's side.

"I'll drink to 'im, but only because you wish it, husband. It's a shabby business that the man can't give you one extra day with us after everything you have done, knowing that Ben will be going off to fight for him two days hence."

"Shush, Alice. It's my duty to serve Lord Rahl, and he must have his reasons. Ben understands, don't you, Ben?" Egremont cocked his head at a dark-haired young man standing at the foot of the table.

"Yes, Grandfather," Ben replied stoutly, straightening his shoulders proudly. An older woman who must have been his mother gazed at him with adoration, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

Darken knew she was afraid for her son. He felt her fear, but could do nothing to comfort her. It was strange how he had never before cared about all the young men who had fought and died in his service.

And for what?

"Now, dear ones, it's time to enjoy my wife's peerless cooking."

Released from the restraint of ceremony, the family began to feast, and, as they ate and drank, the laughter and chatter resumed.

Darken watched with no appetite for any sustenance but their company. Unlike the empty craving he had felt in the company of Richard and Jennsen, here he could at least pretend he was part of their family, if only for a few moments.

Just then a child's clear voice interrupted his musings. "This is even better than last year, Grandmama. Father says that you make the best dumpling soup in D'Hara, and he's right!"

Darken felt every nerve ending in his body sing in response to that voice. He craned his neck to see the small being who had just uttered the compliment.

All he asked was to be granted one brief glimpse.

If the Creator was listening, maybe she would be willing to give him that much, although Darken knew he had done nothing to deserve it.

"Why thank you, Joseph." Alice Egremont rose to her feet and fetched another helping of soup. "Every year I try to make it better just for you. Didn't your mother tell you that?" Just then a striking young woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties reached up to pluck the steaming bowl from the hands of the matriarch of the house and proceeded to ladle out a generous portion onto a small plate.

Although he had only met her once, Darken instantly knew her to be Anna, Egremont's grand-daughter, a woman who radiated the warmth and cheerfulness of her grandmother, but with a laugh, now ringing out in the room, that was so distinctive that his heart almost stopped in his chest.

It was a laugh that called to mind Darken's only untarnished experience of love.

As if in response to Darken's silent prayer, Anna then scooped up her son and placed the boy on her lap, nuzzling the back of his neck until he giggled.

Her son – who had the blonde hair and green eyes of the woman who had given birth to him six years before, and whose lips quirked up in a lop-sided grin whenever he was happy.

Which, Darken fervently hoped, was every minute of every day.

As he drank in the sight of the child he would never claim, Darken prayed to whatever benevolent spirits that might exist that his boy, raised in the midst of such a raucous loving family, would have a better life than his father's.

Because for once in his life, by entrusting his son to this family, Darken knew that, for once, he had done the right thing.

* * *

><p>Sister Verna winced as Darken's grip tightened around her hand. Glancing over at him, she realized that Darken had become so immersed in this vision that he had forgotten her presence.<p>

She had sensed Darken's body tighten like a bow-string when the little boy piped up about the dumpling soup, and following his eyes to the source of that young voice she understood why. The blood pounded in her ears as Verna recalled the blonde woman Darken had fixated upon when they had been at the Mord'Sith temple.

This child was a Rahl. Dread formed in the pit of Vern's stomach while at the same time she felt a curious compassion for the man next to her who couldn't tear his gaze away from the boy.

Despite the atrocities he had committed, the love in Darken's eyes when he looked at his son burned into Verna's soul.

Then the walls and the happy family they sheltered began to swirl and blur around them.

"No!" Darken cried out in protest, turning to her with a pleading look as if she could stop this from happening. "I'm not ready to leave"

In that moment, he looked almost as young as his son.

* * *

><p>Darken and Verna stood in the great square at the foot of the People's Palace as the crowd closed in around them.<p>

The giant statue of Darken Rahl that had towered over the populace for decades was teetering dangerously from the pull of the ropes that were draped over the granite, dislodging the structure from its marble base. Finally, the mob, giving a roar of approval, parted as the statue toppled to the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces.

"He's dead! Praise the Creator - Darken Rahl is dead!" a man shouted at the top of his lungs. "The Seeker has killed the monster."

"We are free of the tyrant!" a woman sobbed with happiness.

"The Seeker! The Seeker has arrived. Make way. Make way." Hundreds of voices took up the cry. "The Seeker is here! Long live the Seeker!"

Then he strode into view, flanked by his Confessor and the wizard, Zeddicus. Grinning at all and sundry, the Seeker of Truth joined the celebration.

Richard Rahl had defeated the tyrant just as the prophecy had foretold.

Verna knew this was what was supposed to happen. She had hoped and prayed for it devoutly over the years, but now the victory tasted like ashes in her mouth.

Somehow, it felt - wrong.

Hadn't the Creator said something in warning about the consequences of Darken's death?

Before Verna could clear her thoughts, the hand she had been clasping for what seemed like years began to scorch her fingers. Try as she might to hold on, Verna was finally forced to pull herself free of Darken to keep from being pulled down into the Underworld.

Filled with a sense of utter defeat, Verna could only watch as Darken Rahl was swallowed by the gaping sulphurous void that had opened up beneath his feet.


	4. An Altered Life

_**An Altered Life**_

Verna came to consciousness with a startled gasp, still filled with the despair of what she had just witnessed.

"Sister Verna – welcome back to the world of the living." Darken Rahl's voice was heavy with bitterness "I'm so happy one of us survived."

Dragging herself up on her hands and knees she looked over to where Darken knelt by the hearth. She half-expected his face to be charred with the mark of the Keeper, but, notwithstanding the mirthless grin that split his face, he seemed quite healthy.

Noting the difficulty she was having in gaining her equilibrium, Darken reached over to help her, but his hand went through her as it had before. He could no longer touch her.

Verna's body felt so tangible to her in Darken's presence, despite the fact that she knew it had never left the Palace of the Prophets.

They were back in Darken's bedchamber, safe and sound, but it was no longer Rahlmas Eve. The first light of dawn was creeping across the sky.

Verna should have been back at the Palace of the Prophets by now, in spirit as well as body.

She felt so lost, so confused.

"Happy Rahlmas, Sister," Darken said with feigned good humor. "Now that you and I have spent the evening together, I have grasped the point that my life has been a hopeless disaster, that I am beyond redemption, that my brother will triumph and that my death is imminent. I can't thank you enough for the trip." Beneath the mockery of his tone, Verna could hear the same note of fear and despair that she was experiencing.

"No," she managed to stammer. "I can't believe that this was all for nothing. The Creator had a reason for sending me here. She told me…She told me…" Verna struggled to remember. "She wanted us both to see, to understand."

"I understand everything, Sister," Darken snapped. "I trusted you and saw only my own death and condemnation."

"No! "Verna felt strength begin to flow back into her spirit. "If the Creator had only intended to step aside and let Richard destroy you then She wouldn't have sent me. She told me to help you – that was my task. I didn't want to do it, but I trusted Her, just as you finally trusted me."

"It's too late," Darken said flatly. "My path was determined long before you ever arrived. I wanted power, so I took it. I knew there would be consequences."

Verna shook her head. "Maybe your path isn't determined yet, Darken." She didn't know at what point during their time together she had started referring to this man by his given name, but given their shared experience, it seemed silly to revert to the old way of thinking.

_The old way of thinking._

_That was the key!_

"I argued with the Creator, Darken. I told Her that you couldn't be forgiven, and She said that it wasn't for me to decide who was beyond forgiveness." Verna tried to catch his gaze, but his eyes were empty caverns. Now that she could no longer touch him physically, Verna was desperate to reach out to him, to give him hope.

"You can change, Darken. It's not too late. You already **have** changed – I felt it." Verna heard her voice gaining in power. "**That's** what the Creator wanted you to know. She needed to show you not only your own past, but the living present and the possible – not inevitable - future. She wanted both of us to understand that there was still time, that you could decide to take a different path.

"I felt everything with you, Darken, not only your hate and fear. I felt the grief for your mother, your longing for a family, your regret about your sister. I felt the remorse and guilt you could not acknowledge - even to yourself."

"I saw you at your most vulnerable. You admitted things to me that you've never told anyone."

Verna played her last card.

"I felt the love you have for your son, and for his mother. You want him to have the happiness that was never yours."

Darken's eyes blazed at the mention of his son. "Joseph is Ungifted. He presents no threat to you or the precious Seeker. Leave him alone. How do I know you won't betray his whereabouts to your sisters, or to my brother." He began to pace the floor.

At least his agitation was a sign of determination, of life, far preferable to the dead-eyed resignation he had shown moments ago.

"Because I give you my word," she vowed. "No matter what happens, I will always protect Joseph." Verna felt a twinge of unease. An oath was a serious matter, but she would trust her instincts on this. "But it's up to you to make a start. Make peace with your brother. Put an end to this devastating war and tyranny."

Darken paused before the window, staring out at the dawn. "Richard will never believe anything I say." His tone was without inflection, a simple declaration of a fact.

"Maybe I could help." Verna offered, regretting the words almost immediately. She had believed herself done with traipsing all over the countryside. But there seemed to be a gentle presence behind her, urging her on. "If you are sincere, if you're willing to make the attempt, than I will act as an intermediary between you and the Seeker. But there can be no more deceit."

Darken snorted. "I can just imagine what the Prelate will think about that idea. Isn't the prophecy of my demise engraved on your palace wall?"

Verna remembered the Creator's words about prophecy. The ones that didn't come to pass were soon forgotten. "Leave that to me," she said with more confidence than she felt. If the Creator had brought her this far, surely She would lend Verna guidance.

_**Sister Verna, you sisters are waiting. **_

_**It's up to you now, Darken Rahl.**_

The voice rang like a bell in the quiet room.

"Who was that?" Darken turned to face Verna, his brow furrowed in a puzzled frown. "What's up to me?"

"You heard it, too?" Verna's heart sang with joy. If Darken could hear the Creator's voice, then he had already begun the journey. "She meant exactly what She said. You have to make the first move – toward your brother, toward peace, toward your people."

"Of course I heard it! I thought we were alone." A growing comprehension filled his eyes. "This isn't possible. I am already sworn to… " Darken's voice trailed off.

Verna didn't know how a vow to the Keeper could be broken. There must be some precedent somewhere. She would have to do some research on the subject, as would Darken. But Verna could do no more here. She was beginning to feel more and more insubstantial, as if she were fading away.

"I have to return to Palace of the Prophets now, Darken. Don't forget anything. Listen to Her voice. Don't lose hope." Verna felt a sense of urgency as she tried to say as much as she could in the little time she had left in this place.

"Wait! You can't leave yet." Darken shouted, trying to catch Verna's arm as she floated out the window. "If I need your help, how can I reach you?"

"Ask Her," Verna replied, as Darken Rahl, the People's Palace and then D'Hara disappeared around her.

* * *

><p>Darken drew his hand back against his chest, embarrassed that someone watching might have seen him reaching for someone who was no longer there.<p>

Recalling the visions and sensations of the night, something cold and hard began breaking apart inside his chest, and Darken wasn't altogether certain he liked this new feeling of being exposed and unprotected.

He had so many questions, and the Seeker of Truth was still hot in pursuit, armed with Orden's magic. Yet Verna had been so certain that there was still time.

Settling himself down as the desk where he had been scribbling the night before, Darken pondered on how best to approach his brother. There was no time to lose.

Sister Verna had offered her aid, but the Voice had said that the first step was up to him, and Darken was woefully unsure of how to begin. He was just beginning to jot down a few notes when the bells of the palace began to peal, ushering in Rahlmas Day, the holiday Darken had been so intent on abolishing only hours before. He glanced at the speech he had begun to write before Sister Verna's arrival.

Darken recalled the loneliness and bitterness of so many Rahlmas Days of the past, remembered the joy he had felt in the house where his son now celebrated Rahlmas, the happiness on Cara's face as she embraced Dahlia. He reached for a new sheet of parchment. Contacting his brother was urgent, true, but his subjects would already be gathering for his annual Rahlmas Day proclamation.

Before Darken could reach out to Richard, he would have to reach out to his own people. Darken would tell them that Rahlmas would no longer be a day devoted to the House of Rahl, but instead would be a day to celebrate new beginnings, a chance for peace, a day of forgiveness.

Today, Darken would ask his subjects for their forgiveness and for a second chance.

* * *

><p>Darken had almost completed re-writing his address when he heard a sharp rap on the door. Glancing at the hourglass, he realized that it was already mid-morning. That must be the seamstress, arriving with a fresh set of the ridiculous Rahlmas ceremonial garb.<p>

He still had to bathe, and that ludicrous outfit usually took at least an hour to put on.

That was a tradition Darken **would** discard this year, another sign of beginning anew. Perhaps next year, if he were still around, Darken might even start dressing in white at Rahlmas, although red suited him so much better. Darken wondered with some amusement if he would ever be able to convince Richard to wear red.

It was best not to get too far ahead of himself. Richard had not been won over yet.

"My Lord," General Egremont called to him from the hallway. "I took the liberty of bringing you breakfast. May I enter?"

"Yes, of course, Egremont." Darken's felt a sharp pang of guilt. During the celebration in the general's household last night, Darken had resolved to send a messenger to his home granting Egremont the additional day's leave he had requested. So much had happened since that it had completely slipped Darken's mind.

The general, looking remarkably well rested and refreshed, strode into the room bearing a covered platter. "Good morning, my Lord. If you will forgive me, I didn't stop by the kitchens, but brought you a plate prepared by my wife. She always remembers how much you like her dumpling soup. There's also some of the meat from yesterday, and a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven." He set the platter down on the table.

Darken's stifled a grin at the memory of Alice's grumbling from the night before, and wondered if she had been seething at his ingratitude as she prepared Darken's meal. Still, the fact that she had done it at all was a thoughtful gesture.

"Thank you, Egremont, and thank your wife, also. I trust your family is well." Darken's mouth watered as he peered under the napkin. The food smelled wonderful.

"They are, my Lord, each and every one of them. I'm a lucky man." Egremont looked almost apologetic over the last words. Darken usually didn't engage him in casual conversation, and the general appeared as if he were afraid of saying something amiss.

Darken recalled the gathering of the night before – the warmth, the good will, his son's happiness. "You are indeed, Egremont, and you have been a loyal servant, not only to the House of Rahl, but to me." The words sounded so stilted, so inadequate.

"Thank you, my Lord. Is there anything else you require before I resume my duties?" The general asked, bowing slightly at the acknowledgement.

"Yes, I need you to go home and rejoin your family for the rest of the day, and for the next two days as a matter of fact. I can manage on my own until then." Darken smile faded as he saw the color drain from Egremont's face. "Is something wrong? I reconsidered your request from yesterday evening and decided to grant it. In return for your trouble in coming in today, I would like to give you the additional day off."

The general's features relaxed into an expression that was as close to a smile as he ever displayed in Darken's presence. "Thank you, Lord. I am more than happy to obey."

"Then be on your way, but first – "Darken halted, unsure of how to continue, wary of crossing the invisible divide between Lord Rahl and counselor, and uncertain of his own emotional control. He was venturing into new terrain. "Before you leave, I want you to know that I've never forgotten…that ever since I was a boy, you were…" he took a deep breath and began again. "I just wanted you to know that you are one of the finest men I've even known, and that Joseph is lucky to have you as a great-grandfather," Darken finished in a rush, needing to get the words out before he became even more tongue-tied.

"Now – be off with you." Darken ordered before the astonished Egremont could form a coherent response.

There was so much that needed to be done! The speech first, then the letter to Richard, which must be scribed and sent by nightfall.

And soon, very soon, before he encountered Richard, Darken would have to tell First Mistress Cara that their son was not being brought up in the harsh environment of a far flung Dragon Corps outpost. Darken knew he should have consulted with her before the child was placed with Egremont's family, and it had grown harder with each passing year to broach the subject. Cara deserved to know that her son was safe, that he was loved, and Darken hoped that she would be content with watching Joseph grow up from afar.

Darken's musings were interrupted by the clatter of boot heels echoing in cadence down the hallway drawing nearer with each measured step. "I certainly hope you're right about this," he spoke to whatever spirit might still be lingering in his chamber, then, gathering up his Rahlmas proclamation in one hand, Darken closed the door behind him.

"My Lord. It's time!" Mistress Riona announced, standing respectfully at the head of his retinue. Behind her waited a score of Mord'Sith, Dragon Corps and officers from the Third Battalion, all lined up in perfect formation in readiness to escort their leader onto the great balcony.

Darken nodded and took his place, a re-born man, ready to take the first step into a new world.

* * *

><p>Sister Verna limped into the great dining hall of the Palace of the Prophets to for the culmination of the Creatormas celebration, and gingerly lowered herself into her seat at the huge table. She was no longer a young woman, and hours of kneeling on a stone floor while her spirit had dashed about hither and yon through time and distance had taken a toll on her body.<p>

When the Prelate had remarked that Verna might be carrying her Creatormas devotions a little too far by staying up all night in meditation, Verna had only smiled, imagining the horrified reaction had she revealed that she had spent the night with Darken Rahl. It might have been amusing to see the Prelate's eyes pop out of her head, but this was not a matter to be taken lightly.

The Palace of the Prophets was steeped in rigid tradition and strict adherence to prophecy, and Verna knew she would be treading on dangerous ground when she proposed her ideas. While she had promised Darken Rahl that she would act as an intermediary between him and his brother, Verna had no firm plan as to how she would ever convince her sisters to pursue a course they would consider blasphemous.

Still, if Darken Rahl was serious about seeking a truce, and Verna believed he was, she would do her part. If only she could have had a few more moments to speak with him before she had been pulled away. The man had still seemed so shaken and unsure, but he **had **heard the Creator's voice.

Verna would not let herself give up hope.

Finally, after every sister had taken her seat, the Prelate rose to her feet at the head of the table and began to lead them in the Creatormas liturgy. It was a beautiful service, sung rather than spoken, and Verna had long since memorized every word and note, yet this year she was content to just listen, letting the music flow over and around her.

_Strengthen me, oh Creator, to defend your light._

Eyes closed, Verna was lost in the elegant simplicity of the liturgy when she felt a gentle nudge at her shoulder.

_**Verna – open your eyes. **_

_**Look.**_

Verna obeyed, but all she could see as she looked down the long slab of marble were her sisters, their faces serene and peaceful.

Then, slowly, their forms seemed to melt and fade and others took their place.

Verna found herself seated at another table, in another palace, in another time, leagues away from the Palace of the Prophets.

Darken and Richard Rahl sat at the head of the table, Richards' brow furrowed in concentration as he listened to something his brother was saying, nodding in agreement. Both men were dressed in the royal red of D'Hara.

Mistress Cara sat at Darken's side, watchful, protective and alert, the fingers of one hand intertwined with his, while the other rested lightly on Dahlia's arm. Kahlan Amnell, her white Confessor dress glowing like a beacon, sat on Richard's left, leaning against his shoulder, a jeweled Rada'Han gracing her throat, attentive to the conversation between the two brothers, while First Wizard Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander fidgeted next to her, avidly eyeing the fruit that was being brought to the table. Jennsen Rahl, also adorned in red, sat next to her grandfather, her attention divided between her two brothers and a dark-haired Mord'Sith sitting across the table.

Verna's gaze traveled down the length of the table to find General Egremont conversing with Chase Brandstone, while the families of both men mingled in the shadows, the children playing tag with each other as they dashed around the throne room. Joseph Egremont kept darting in and out amongst the others, easily evading any pursuer. Verna thought she caught a glint of amusement in Darken's eyes when his son scampered under the table. As Anna rushed out of the shadows to retrieve the wayward boy, her eyes met Cara's for one fleeting look of shared understanding.

Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared to her, Richard, Darken, Cara and the others began to fade away, coalescing once more into the forms of Verna's sisters.

Verna's eyes blurred with tears. She knew it was only a vision, a hope, a possibility. She knew that a successful peace would take years to forge, that doubts and resentments would linger on both sides, but it was a goal that now at least seemed within reach.

Someone tugged at her sleeve again, but this time it was only Sister Merry, one of Verna's closest friends in the sisterhood. "Verna, stop wool gathering. It's your turn. What is your wish for Creatormas?"

Verna stood up on stiff, wobbly legs. She had nothing to say that others couldn't express far more eloquently, but she would do her best.

"I wish for healing, forgiveness and peace, for every land and every soul. I wish that we will have the wisdom to know what to glean from the past, and the strength to know when to let go of the past. My wish is for the Creator's blessing on **everyone**."

Sinking back down to her seat, Verna felt the soft brush of a hand against her cheek.

_**Well done, Sister Verna. Well done.**_

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

1.** Verna's lack of knowledge about Richard's bloodline:** Since this is a fable, I've tinkered with Sister Verna's Show!canon storyline in several respects, having her escape from the D'Harans rather than being captured, and more significantly, making her unaware that the wizard she seeks is a Rahl. (As Riona suggested, perhaps show!Verna only discovered this fact after Darken's death in canon after so many D'Harans proclaimed Richard as Lord Rahl.)

2. **The laws of astral projection:** In making Verna's at times have physical substance in Darken's presence, I've played a little fast and loose with whatever laws there are concerning spirits. I felt it was important for there to be physical contact between Darken and Verna as they journey through time and distance, and felt it important that the contact could not be forced on Darken but only offered to him. This is a Rahlmas fable and, after all, the Creator works in mysterious ways.

3. **The Egremont family:** If there is confusion as to the gaggle of Egremonts at the Rahlmas feast, or anywhere else in the story –Alice is the general's wife; Ben, the young man being dispatched to the Midlands after the holiday, is Egremont's great-nephew – his sister's grandchild; Anna is General Egremont's married grand-daughter and Ben's cousin; and Joseph is Anna's adopted son and General Egremont's adoptive great-grandson. Hope this helps. :D


End file.
